


Come Back (Til Mig)

by Dulcinea



Category: Metallica
Genre: Alternate Reality, Angst, M/M, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-06 22:06:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3149966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dulcinea/pseuds/Dulcinea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternate reality of the SKOM era.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Back (Til Mig)

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU as a one-shot. The setting for the whole story is December 2002, but there's flashbacks/memories to months/years prior. I don't want to reveal how it's an AU. You'll see when you read.
> 
> Thanks to Audrey for encouraging me to keep writing.
> 
> Here is the list of music I listened to while writing this, and you're welcome to find the songs and do the same as you read: Johan Söderqvist's In A Better World OST; Max Richter's Memoryhouse; Thomas Newman's Road to Chicago, Any Other Name, Whisper of a Thrill, and Brooks Was Here; Isis's Weight, Dulcinea and In Fiction; Ludovico Einaudi's Nuvole Bianche; and finally, Foo Fighters's Come Back.

“Hi. I need a one-way flight to Copenhagen. The earliest flight you’ve got with first class seating. I don’t care what the price is, I’ll pay it.” James dropped his passport, drivers license and credit card on the countertop. “Here’s everything. I’m not checking in any baggage. Just need the flight.” He took a breath. “That’s it.”

She slowly blinked. “Um. I’ll… see what I can do, sir.”

“Thanks.”

She eventually worked a miracle for him. 12:55PM United flight out of SFO to Copenhagen, connecting via Heathrow on Scandinavian Airlines. Only one first class seat left, row 2A, for each flight. “You’re lucky,” she said, “our next flight isn’t until 3PM.” And while reason told him it was okay if he missed this one, James knew his resolve would’ve weakened. He had to leave now, on the heels of the argument. 

Security was an easy in-and-out. They had nothing to search for. Finding the terminal was easy too. With fifteen minutes before boarding, there were a lot of people waiting. He stayed away from the crowd and the Christmas decorations, taking a seat at the far end, a long row of black chairs facing a large window. 

Outside the tarmac was as empty as the blue sky, void of planes and clouds. A rare good day for a San Francisco December. No chance of rain, light wind, and clear skies. He’d arrive to Heathrow on time, so the schedule said, and then onward to Copenhagen. It’d be okay. He could relax now.

James rested his head in his hands.

_Shit_.

“I’m serious, James,” Lars said. “He’s using you. This isn’t because I don’t like him.”

“Right.”

“I’m serious! He’s pulling the wool over your eyes, Bob’s, Kirk’s—he doesn’t care about any of us. You have to believe me.”

He shut the phone off. Shut the door in Lars’s face. Shut him up.

“Shut up Lars,” Jason said. “Just do us a favor and shut up.”

James saw the ‘fuck you’ on Lars’s face, and he stopped the eventual blowup with a stern look sent Lars’s way. 

All the warning signs were there. Lars attempting different ways to talk to him. Jason shoving himself between them. In the studio, out of the studio. Lars arguing with Jason. Jason arguing with Lars. James arguing them into silence. The only person he got any alone time with was Jason, and even then, Lars was there in Jason’s words. 

“He’s jealous of us. That’s why he wants me out of the band again.”

“Why would he be jealous? Lars is my best friend. He doesn’t like me that way.”

“Yeah, but haven’t you noticed how angry he is lately? He can’t get along with anyone anymore. You two are always arguing, Kirk is tired of keeping the peace, and it’s obvious he’s never liked me. I mean, I don’t want a repeat of 2000, do you?”

“Of course not.” James laid a hand over Jason’s. “You don’t plan on—”

“Hell no. I’m never leaving again.” He kissed James’s cheek. “I’m staying with you. Lars is going to have to get used to that.”

“But he’s not jealous.”

Jason laughed. “Don’t be naive, James. He is. He doesn’t like that we’re together, and hell, he probably doesn’t even like you anymore.” 

_That’s stupid_ , he thought. _Of course Lars likes me. I’m his best friend. We’ve been together for twenty-something years. I know him too well. He’s not jealous. He’ll get used to this Jason, I promise._

Three months later, Jason’s words rang true. 

Tensions escalated. The arguments intensified. Kirk walked out for a week. Bob followed suit. The more time passed, the more the pressure arose to _do something_ to fix this. Phil the Health Tornado wasn’t around to help them like he had in the beginning. It was up to them what to do, and the only answer wasn’t an easy one. 

“There has to be another way,” Kirk said. “Maybe some time off?”

It was 2000 all over again. Another hotel room, everyone sitting in a circle, except one was missing. James stood in a corner while Jason, sitting in front of him, shook his head no. 

“We’ve stalled the album long enough.” Jason turned to Bob. “You agree, yeah?”

Bob, crossed-armed, shrugged and mumbled, “Yeah.”

“Then there we go.”

“But it’s _Lars_. We can’t just…” Kirk looked ready to cry.

Jason sighed. “I know. But we have to. If we want to continue on, this is the only way.” 

Kirk visibly struggled for words. James met his eye when he tilted his head up. 

“What do you think?”

Jason followed his line of sight, turning around. So did Bob. They all looked at him, like a jury to an executioner, and he pressed up against the corner, feeling 1980-something with the pressure and the weight dragging his shoulders down to the Earth, so he could sink in and disappear. 

“James?” Jason’s eyebrows rose. “What’s your decision?”

_United Flight 0954 to London Heathrow, will begin boarding in…_

James remembered what Lars wore that morning. Running shorts, Nike sports top, a banana in hand. Like it was any other morning. Lars glanced at all of them before he looked directly at him, and James couldn’t handle that stare. He fixed on a spot on the wall over Lars’s shoulder, while Jason beside him cleared his throat and took the lead. Only Jason could say the decision. He had a strength that morning none of them had. 

“Take a seat, Lars.”

“No thanks.”

“I insist.”

“I’ll pass.”

“Okay.” Jason took a deep breath. “Well then. There’s no point stalling, huh boys?”

Kirk said nothing from the couch. Bob’s seat squeaked from the console.

James closed his eyes. 

“Stalling what?” Lars sounded angry on the surface. James knew it covered the fear. “What is it?”

Even now, Jason’s words stung.

“You need to leave.”

Lars’s reaction too.

“…W-What?”

“We all talked about it and we came to an agreement. You need to leave.”

Kirk tried to smooth it over. “Some time off, y’know.”

Bob helped. “It’ll be for the best.”

“You _have_ been working hard, Lars.” Jason sounded sincere. “You deserve it.”

The silence that followed cut deep. He waited for the blow up. The angry tirade. The _fuck you you’re not letting me go that easily you can’t I made this fucking band I started it you’re not taking it away from me dammit_ —

“James?”

Lars didn’t do any of that.

“James.”

Lars didn’t fight.

“James. Please.”

Lars just…

“Look at me.”

James opened his eyes. In the reflection of the big mirror, he didn’t see himself. He saw Lars staring back at him with the look that still haunted him. 

“Do you want me to leave?”

_United Flight 0954 to London Heathrow, now boarding first class…_

When he sat down and turned to the window, Lars was there in the reflection, waiting for his answer. He shut the visor down like he shut his eyes, but there he was behind his lids for the whole ten hours, with that awful look. A look that was nothing Lars. 

He was there still in another big window to another open tarmac and another empty blue sky. James saw the lines on his face, not the lines of the plane. The bags and the circles around his questioning eyes, not the passenger bags or the circling lights. 

“James?”

His hands twisted around the last ticket. 

Lars sounded the way he looked. Defeated.

“Do you want me to leave?”

And James said—

_Scandinavian Airlines Flight 6926 now boarding…_

Nothing.

Lars took his silence as the answer. The defeated look disappeared into the one James knew best. The fuck-you glare. The Who-Cares-I-Don’t attitude. “Okay then. Call me when you’re ready.” And he left. Left the band, San Francisco and the country.

Jason was happy. “We don’t need him. Check out these drummers here. They’re ten times better than him.” They were. Technically they were amazing. But after two long months trying out drummers, and one month settling on one, James wasn’t convinced. As great as this guy was—James didn’t even remember his name—it wasn’t the same. The music was different. Kirk felt a little lost in his solo making. Bob wasn’t sure what to critique on. He himself didn’t know how to arrange the riffs properly. Only Jason seemed at ease. Out of all of them, he was the one Lars rarely helped. Jason didn’t need the help anyway.

Rehearsals were different too. He had to wean himself away from the kit. There was no Lars there to meet him dead in the eye, glaring or smiling or laughing back at him. No Lars challenging him to play faster, or spitting water at him, or locking into a moment with him in their music. When he looked over the kit now, there was just some guy there playing like every technical metal drummer out there, intensely focused, insanely good, and he knew he had to get used to it. But the awkwardness didn’t leave. It was the same kind of awkwardness he felt when he saw Jason there instead of Cliff. At least that had lifted over time. Deep down, James knew this one wouldn’t go away.

“Yeah it will,” Jason said a week ago. “You have to give him a chance. He’s a nice guy.” He flipped through the faxes—yet another Lars responsibility he handled now. “Nicer than Lars was, that’s for sure.”

“You—” _Didn’t even like him. Your viewpoint’s skewed._

“Hm?”

“Nothing.” He kissed Jason’s cheek. “I’ll keep trying.”

“Good.”

James did try. He tried hanging with the guy. Tried getting to know him. After a week though, he came to not care for him at all, despite having similar interests. They both liked the outdoors, cars and country music. It should’ve been a perfect fit. But he still didn’t like him and he couldn’t figure out why.

Kirk gave him the answer. “You want Lars back.” He touched James’s knee. “So do I.”

They were alone in HQ the night before the argument. Jason thought he was off with his sponsor brothers. Instead, he called Kirk and Bob up, guilt weighing on his shoulders. 

“You’re not the only one who feels this way,” Bob said. 

“It’s not been the same,” Kirk agreed.

James still felt guilty. “But the guy’s nice.”

“Yeah. And he isn’t Lars.” 

“We have to—”

“Move on? No we don’t. If we want Lars back, then we get him back. It’s just obvious who won’t agree.”

James turned away. He found Jason’s bass against the wall and the guilt intensified. “I don’t know.”

“Yes you do James.” Kirk squeezed his knee. “You know what you have to do.”

The questioned plagued him that night as he listened to Jason sleep. Would Jason understand? Or the new guy? Would Lars even care? Where was Lars anyway? Was this a good idea? Or would it… 

He turned his head on the pillow. Watched the rise and fall of Jason’s belly, his parted lips and mussed hair. 

Was this the end or the inevitable? 

_Hej og velkommen til København. Den er 12:50…_

The plane hit the ground. Wheels skidded on pavement. James jerked his head up. Almost one in the afternoon. Lars might be in his hotel. Most likely he’d be out to lunch with family. But it was still a crapshoot. He might not even be in the D’Angleterre to begin with. He was going on memories of Lars’s Copenhagen, the names and faces and places that Lars frequented over the last twenty-odd years. But Lars might’ve done something different. The one time James needed Lars to stick to the familiar, and Lars might’ve said fuck it and gone somewhere else. Some other hotel. Some other city. Maybe some other country, and then the whole trip would’ve been a waste. 

_No. Don’t think like that. He’s there. You know he’s there._ James moved faster through the terminal, right to the currency counter. _Lars is there. Lars is coming back._

“Lars is gonna come back.”

Jason snorted. “Sure.”

It was ten in the morning. The new guy hadn’t shown up yet. Kirk was making a late breakfast in the kitchen. Bob left to get his Christmas Starbucks fix. Zach and crew fiddled around in the A-Room, setting up their equipment. The control room was empty. They were alone. 

“You don’t think so?”

“We tried contacting him multiple times already. Face it, James. It’s been three months. He doesn’t want to come back.”

_You’re wrong._ James shook his head. _We need him back._

Jason flipped over some papers on the console. Turned a few knobs. 

_I need him back._

One of their new songs started up. Jason leaned back into his seat. “So I’m not sure about this—”

“I’m leaving.”

“—riff, it’s a bit—” Jason stopped and snapped around. “What?”

He was already out the studio door when Jason went to his feet. “Where are you going?” Jason called out, and James ignored him. Walked through the living room and the kitchen, Kirk turning away from the stove to stare, and he probably said something too, but James had to leave. Had to get out. Get in the truck. Get going. 

“To Lars.”

Behind him, Jason’s voice sounded far away. “What’d you say?”

He reached the parking lot door. “I’m going to Lars.” His hand closed around the knob. “I’m getting him back.”

Jason’s sharp laughter stopped him cold. “Of course you are.”

He kept his hand on the knob as he turned around. Standing in the middle of the room was the Jason of 2000, with his hands balled up into tight white-knuckle fists, just like then. There was Kirk in his peripheral view, on the sidelines as usual, but he wasn’t stepping forward to break them a part. He stood there quiet. Waiting. 

The studio door opened. Out came Bob with a Starbucks cup, mumbling, “Where is…” And he stopped. Looked at James. Looked at Jason. “Oh.”

“It’s nothing, Bob,” Jason said. “James was—”

“Leaving. I’m getting Lars back.”

Bob smiled. “Alright.”

“There’s no need,” Jason hissed. “We already _have_ a drummer.”

“And he’s not here.”

“Please. David is miles ahead of Lars, and you know it. We’re better off without him.”

“I don’t give a shit if he can play double bass upside down. He’s not Lars. We don’t _sound_ like us when we’re in there, and we haven’t since he left.”

“I agree,” Kirk says.

Bob nods. “Me too.”

Jason chuckled, shaking his head. One arm unfurled and he rubbed his side of his temple. “This is fucking ridiculous. This is just…” He gestured to James. “What about David, huh? The drum tracks are almost done.”

“I don’t care. Have him finish or Lars can do it.”

“Woah woah, hold up.” He stepped closer. “You’re gonna make Lars play over _his_ work?”

“If he doesn’t like it, we can scrap them.”

“ _Scrap them?_ You’re telling me you’re going to scrap his hard work, the shit he worked on for three months—”

“Then make him understand.” He opened the door. “It’s for the best.”

James had a foot out the door when Jason’s laughter bubbled up—a bitter, loud laugh that spilled into the maniacal. He turned around and found Jason with his back to him, walking away to the opposite end of the room, furthering the distance between them.

“So that’s it, huh? The entity of JamesLars returns to screw another person over. David gives his time and energy to us, and this is how you’re gonna repay him—oh, sorry, we’re getting our old _shitty_ drummer back and he’ll finish _your_ drumtracks.” Jason reached the back and stopped, placing his hands on his hips. “Man. _Man._ I really thought you had changed, James. I truly did.”

Kirk whispered what James thought. “You’re still not over it.”

Jason whipped around, glaring at Kirk. “My bass. My sideprojects. My music. _My music,_ Kirk.” He pointed to James. “Everything I’ve ever done, he’s always hated. It’s like no one can have a music life outside of James and Lars’s say so. I thought with Lars gone that whole thing would end but he clearly wants to bring it back the old status quo and ruin this band again.” He turned to James, masking the anger and frustration with a smile—a fake smile. “You don’t want that to happen again, do you? I thought Phil taught us better. We’re all equals now, right?”

He heard that tone of voice before months ago, when the problems all began. It was a different question with the same jist: _I don’t want a repeat of 2000, do you?_ But there it was, living and breathing in the room, in Jason. _You don’t want this to happen again, do you?_ And it was. It was always supposed to be this way.

_Lars was right._

“We tried to be.”

Time slowed. Jason’s deflation dug into the weakest part of his chest. The pain that followed weighed him down, right to his feet, as he turned around and walked out.

Jason’s whispered threat stopped him one last time. 

“You leave, and I’m steppin’.”

He stood out the doorway, arm stretched behind him. His fingers squeezed and flexed the knob. If he walked—if he left…

James closed his eyes as he closed the door. 

_Wouldn’t be the first time._

“Sir. We’re here.”

James startled in his seat. Outside were people on streets, wet pavement, a cloudy grey sky—and the Hotel D’Angleterre, with its fairytale white exterior, British windows and Danish flags on top, waving him hello. 

_I made it._

“Sir?”

“Huh?” He turned around. The taxi driver had an arm around the passenger seat, curious eyes judging him. “Oh. Sorry.” He laughed off the awkward tension. “I’m a bit jetlagged. Just came in from California.”

“I see.”

“Yeah. How much?”

“200 kroner.”

“Right.” He fished out his wallet, handing over the bills. “Thanks.”

“Enjoy your stay.”

The rain started to fall as he walked through the front doors, the bellhops opening them with a nod. Inside the fairytale opened up, soothing browns and golds lit up by a large chandelier and an even larger Christmas tree. People passed him, walking to elevators, to the bar, to the cafe in the corner, no one giving him a glance or a look-over. But there was no line at the concierges desk. Only two were busy. The other three were open. 

He came forward to a blond lady in beige behind the marble desk. When she noticed him, James didn’t have to say anything. “Visiting a friend?”

“Huh?”

She smiled. “I know who you are, Mr. Hetfield.”

“Ah.” _Of course you would. After Napster, Jason, rehab and Lars_ —James planted his elbows on the marble and leaned in to whisper, “Is he around?”

“No, unfortunately not. He left about an hour ago.”

_Shit._ “Y’know when he’ll be back?”

“I honestly don’t. He usually takes his time. Maybe two to three hours at the latest.”

“Alright. That’s fine.” _More waiting._ He pointed to an empty sofa chair towards the middle of the lobby. “I’m going to wait for him there, is that okay?”

“Of course, Mr. Hetfield.”

“Great, thanks.”

He took a seat, pillowed in red cushions, far enough from most people in the lobby, but close enough to see the hotel clock. It hung like a pendulum over the desk, time ticking away too slow, torturing his patience. He made note of the time—twenty minutes to two in the afternoon—and let his eyes close for a little while. At least Lars was here. At least he made it. 

_Lars…_

“Do you want me to leave?”

_No. Never._

“James.”

Ahead laid the Pacific, Golden Gate eaten alive in the fog. Boats and ships zoomed in and out from underneath orange legs. But the sky was blue. The ground was green. 

“Look at me.”

He turned to the east, and Lars stood at the ocean’s edge, the same way he did that morning. His shorts, the banana, that—

“Do you want me to leave?”

That look. 

James shook his head no. He opened his mouth.

A hand slapped over it. “You need to leave.”

_Jason._

He couldn’t fight. The hand jerked him back, squeezed his jaw tight. His feet dragged on the soil. 

“Some time off, y’know.”

His lungs filled up with a scream, watching Lars step back into the ocean. 

Jason kissed his cheek.

“It’ll be for the best.”

Lars closed his eyes. Another step back. A bad wave crashed into his legs. 

“James…”

The fog crawled in. Jason chuckled against his throat. “You deserve it.” Lars opened his eyes and James shivered to his bones when Jason whispered, “You deserve better.”

Lars disappeared behind Jason’s head. 

A loud ocean wave bled through his ears. The hand over his mouth swiftly grabbed his throat, and Jason’s icy lips ate up his cry. 

_Lars!_

When the kiss ended, Jason was gone. 

Lars was gone. 

_No. NO._

His fingers touched ocean foam— _Lars_ —and he fell to his knees, sinking into sand. His nails clawed down his cheeks, tearing at his cold skin— _no no no no_ —the wind slapping his face— _you lost him you fucked up he’s gone he’s gone_ —

“LARS!”

He shot up from the couch. 

White walls replaced the ocean and the bridge. The chandelier, the tree. The concierges behind their desk looked at him weird, a little afraid. 

_Lars._

He ran a hand over his face. Sweat gathered under his palm. Every labored breath hurt him. His heartbeat pounded up his ribcage to his throat. 

_It’s okay._ He swiped his hand down, around his neck, squeezing it. _It’s okay._

When he glanced over to the clock, his blood went cold. 

Four-thirty. Two hours passed.

_No._

He scrambled off the couch to the desk. The same concierge from before seemed to tremble on the other side. “Did I miss him? Did he come—”

“No Mr. Hetfield.” She shook her head no. “He hasn’t arrived yet.”

_Thank God._ His head bowed, collapsing on the table. _I didn’t miss him. I didn’t miss him._ His forehead pressed to the marble. _There’s still a chance._

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” He lifted his head, swiping his mouth, his eyes. “I’m just… I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? You look—” She gestured to his face. “—very tired.”

“No. I’m okay. I’m fine.” He straightened himself up, looking right at her. She did look scared. “You said he’s going to be here, yeah?”

“Yes. I’m not sure how much longer, but yes, he should be here.”

“Okay.” _He’s coming. He’s on the way._ “Do you have any water here, coffee?”

“Not to worry. I’ll have someone bring you both.”

“Thank you.”

“Whenever you’re ready for a room…”

He waved her off, returning to the red couch. The jet lag and fatigue weighed on his shoulders. But there was no comfort behind the darkness of his lids. Only Jason. The ocean. An empty California and no Lars. 

His attention fixated on the clock above the desk. 

_Come on Lars._

Five minutes later, someone came to his side with a bottled water and a steaming cup of coffee. Twenty minutes later, the cup was drained. Ten minutes later, the empty plastic rolled beside James. His eyes drifted shut another thirty minutes later, and quickly snapped open in half a second. An hour came up—three hours now in total—and James slumped back against the cushions. 

_He’s coming._ James watched the chandelier twinkle above. _He’s gonna be here._

All attention went back to the clock. Five minutes. Eight. Ten, and his hands flexed and fidgeted. Twelve, sixteen, twenty into hour three, and he wrestled with his hands on his lap. Twenty-five, thirty, and heads turned in the lobby when he sighed too loud at forty. Forty-five, fifty, and those heads turned again, accompanied by whispers and murmurs he knew too well. _Is that him? Are you sure?_ Hour four, fucking hour four— _it can’t be, he’s famous_ —and he picked up the bottle, rolling it between his hands. Ten into hour four, and he crushed the bottle in one hand. His head drooped again twenty minutes later, jerked back up, drooped again two minutes later, jerked back up. He shook his head and squeezed his fists— _stay awake, don’t miss him, you can’t_ —and the concierges all looked like sad dogs behind their desks. Sad for him. 

He ran his hands over his face at hour five. Seven at night now. Soon eight would come. Then nine. And his thoughts went wild: what if Lars wasn’t coming back tonight? What if he went out with family and decided to stay? Would they tell him what room he was in? The phone number at least? 

_Where are you?_

Minutes dragged on. His head drooped and snapped up repeatedly. He blinked blurriness out of his vision and re-focused on the clock. 

The second hand touched six. Five hours, thirty minutes gone now, time he couldn’t spare. Enough time for Lars to go elsewhere. 

_No. He’s here. He has to be._

“Has to be.”

He closed his eyes.

Lars stood at the ocean’s edge again, defeated, alone. The foam licked around his ankles, the fog hugging his slumped shoulders. 

James stretched his arms out. 

_Don’t leave._

Lars receded with the next wave. Smaller. More distant. Farther away.

_Don’t go._

“Lars…”

He woke up to white walls again. The gold chandelier. The Christmas tree. The clock teasing time too slow. His head felt heavy. His body too. 

More people filled up the lobby. People left to their rooms, left for a night out. Some looked at him weird. Others didn’t care. 

Eight at night. Six hours passed. 

James folded over, his head falling into his cold hands. 

The sound of squeaky laughter jerked him right up.

His head whipped around, eyes darting about the crowd. On weak feet he stood up from the couch and searched over heads, through people. He knew that sound. He knew that laugh. 

He stepped over luggage, circled around bodies. That laugh was close, and though the lobby was stuffed now, it wasn’t big. Lars hadn’t gone far. He was here. He was…

Two people rolled their luggage away in opposite directions, crossing his vision. 

James stopped. 

_Lars._

He looked good. Burgundy wool long-sleeve, grey pants, clean-shaven. Standing beside him, chatting as animated as Lars himself, was someone taller, lanky and bespectacled. It took half a second for James to remember: Stein, Lars’s cousin, IT guy, year younger than him. They were cocooned in their own little world, standing side by side, Lars listening to whatever story Stein told, a squeaky laugh coming out here and there. 

Gone was the worry, the defeat from three months ago. No more bags under his eyes. His skin was a healthy tan, his body a healthy thin.

Lars was himself again. Lars was happy. 

_I shouldn’t be here._

People crossed in front of him. Stein kept talking, laughing. Lars listened in the way James missed: full attention given, in a look, in his smile. Like Stein was the only person who mattered, no one else.

He couldn’t move. The little voice in his head yelling at him _go on go on_ was too little. It didn’t match the feeling in his gut, the weight inside that sickened and saddened him at the same time. 

_He’s better off without us._

James watched Lars laugh.

_Without me._

He was there. Right there. Ten, twelve paces forward and James could touch him. But the gap between them was far enough. 

Lars won’t see him. Lars was in his own world—a better world. He was happy. He was…

James held his breath.

He was turning his head. 

Their eyes met.

James watched them widen. 

Lars’s smile waned. Stein beside him kept talking, gesticulating every word with his hands, but Lars wasn’t paying attention anymore. 

_He sees me._

In that moment, James felt fear. 

People crossed his vision again. He didn’t flinch. Neither did Lars. Their stares were locked and tunneled down, pin-pointed on each other. 

Stein finally stopped talking and followed Lars’s line of sight, becoming a mirror image of his cousin in shock and awe—for a brief moment. He broke into a smile soon after and waved him over. Somehow, in the rush of blood roaring in his head, James faintly heard Stein shouting his name. 

Lars turned away himself, grabbing Stein’s hand waving in the air and bringing it down. He watched them talk, Lars whispering something, Stein whispering back. They didn’t look angry or annoyed. Only concerned and confused. Obviously talking about him. Why he was there. 

The conversation ended quick, with Lars patting Stein’s arm. Stein nodded, squeezing Lars’s shoulder, and he stepped away, sending a parting wave and smile to James. 

He managed a smile back. His arms stayed frozen to his sides. 

There was no pause. The second Stein left beyond the lobby doors, Lars walked forward, hands slipping into his pockets. He wasn’t smiling anymore. He didn’t look angry, but he didn’t look like before. He didn’t look at ease.

And then, Lars was there. Standing in front of him. Staring up at him. Not phased. Not caring.

Lars didn’t care.

“Hi,” he said.

James swallowed. “Hi.”

“You here alone?”

“Yeah.”

“What for?” 

“I…” _I don’t know. I had to._ His throat was dry. _I came for you—_

“Why are you here?”

Lars wasn’t happy anymore. Lars didn’t care. 

Lars didn’t want him here. 

_No._ “I, uh…”

“Ja?”

James’s whisper hitched. “I needed to.”

Lars’s face fell. But his cold tone didn’t waver. “You needed to.” 

He nodded. The urge to explain himself didn’t match his need to rest. Lars didn’t care. There was no point anymore. 

_It wasn’t enough._ James turned away. _I’m sorry._

A strong hand squeezed his bicep, pulling him back. 

“Wait.”

He turned back. Lars was pulling. Lars was leading him. Lars…

“Let’s take this elsewhere.” Lars smiled. 

James smiled back. 

_He does care._

They headed to the elevator, taking the five flights up to the suite level, Lars’s hand not leaving James’s arm the entire way. He was grateful. By the time they reached Lars’s room, he could barely stand on his own. 

Lars held open the door for him. “You look like shit.”

James laughed. “Yeah.” He stumbled inside. 

“Long trip?”

“Mhm.”

The lights switched on. Lars’s hand steered him in, the door closing behind them. His focus left him. The living room and kitchen passed by in a blur. 

“Tired, huh?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You look it.”

Lars used his free hand to push white doors open. James followed him, and he almost wanted to cry when the king-sized bed came into view. 

“Here.” Lars used both hands to guide him forward. “Get some rest.” 

He barely made it to the mattress, flopping down face first to the pillows. His arms snaked around one, hugging it to him, and he closed his eyes, sighed into the fabric.

It smelled like Lars. He hugged it tighter.

_Finally._

“Hey.” Fingers tapped his left leg. “Where’s your suitcase?”

“Dun bring one.”

“…What?”

“Mm, din want to.”

“But…” Lars sounded so shocked. “Why?”

“Had to.” He yawned into the pillow. _For you._

Whatever Lars said next James missed. He heard only his deep breathing as he finally relaxed, succumbing to his two-day fatigue. And as he fell into a dreamless sleep, he felt the vaguest touch of fingers brushing over his hair. 

**

He woke up to the smell of food coming from next door. His stomach’s growl pained him, all the way up his chest, and he groaned, rolling onto his back. 

The bed was warm. His body was warm. He blinked open his eyes and found himself in darkness, save whatever light was coming through the bedroom doors. 

_Television light_ , his mind supplied, bathing the living room silver. It lit enough for him to see a blanket tucked around the lower half of body, the tips of his socks peeking out. 

Another growl ripped through his insides. James rolled to his side and up. His legs felt like jelly, his mind and body still trapped in the fog of fatigue. It was so tempting to fall backwards onto the bed, hug Lars’s pillow to him again and drift back to sleep. But he had to eat. And talk. 

They really had to talk.

He found Lars curled up on the couch, the television light casting shadows on his bored face, arms crossed over his chest. His attention quickly diverted away from the screen to him, and James’s queasiness subsided when Lars smiled. 

“Hey there.”

James leaned against the doorframe. “Hi.”

“Sleep well?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s good. You were out a few hours.” 

“What time is it?”

“A little after midnight.” Lars gestured to the table, where a silver cloche rested. “I got you some food.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s meat. Lots of it.”

His stomach growled again. 

Lars chuckled. “I did right, huh?”

“Yep.” James chuckled too. “You know me.”

“Yeah…” Lars’s smile waned. His attention drifted to the floor. James read easily what he was thinking. _I used to._

He stepped forward. “Lars—”

“You should shower.”

“Uh?”

“I laid everything out in the bathroom. Go shower. Then come eat.”

He sighed. “Okay.”

“Down the hall, to the right.”

“Thanks.”

As he left, he watched Lars fold himself deeper into the couch corner, tucking his legs under him, head falling sideways onto the arm rest. It was the familiar sight of an upset Lars, the kind of Lars that wanted no one close. 

_Shit._

He found the inside of the bathroom just as Lars said. All the toiletries rested on the bath rim in a row, with a big white robe folded neatly on the toilet seat. He stripped his clothes off and hopped into the shower, turning the water on full blast, hot and scalding. 

Under the spray, he closed his eyes and tried to think of nothing. But the Pacific haunted him. Jason taunted him. 

Lars vanished into foam. 

James leaned against the cold tile. Hot droplets splashed onto his face. Around him, the steam hugged his body like San Francisco fog. 

His fists pounded the wall.

_I’m not leaving._

He stared up at the ceiling. 

_Not without you._

The robe was his size. It fit perfectly. He ran a white towel through his hair quickly and threw it to the ground. His fists balled up his dirty clothes as he left the bathroom, the cool air chilling his wet body. 

Lars rolled his eyes up at him when he entered the living room again. “Done?”

“Yeah.” He lifted the ball of clothes. “Where can I put these?”

“There’s a hamper near the front door. Housekeeping’ll wash ‘em in the morning.”

“Cool.”

He found the basket easily and dumped them in. The television sounds snapped off when he came back, along with the light. Brief darkness—and then sharp yellow light flooded the room with a click. He found source on the desk adjacent to the couch. 

Lars’s hand drifted away from the gold lamp chain to the arm rest. His eyes gave James a once-over. “You look better.”

“I feel better.”

“Good.” He turned away to the table, lifting up cloche. Two steaks, bacon and mashed potatoes filled up the white china plate. A glass of water rested beside the cultery. “Here.”

The way Lars spoke didn’t sound inviting at all. He was on the defensive early. A subdued defensive, but thick enough for James to catch on. And it made sense why. Months of no communication, and now, this. Lars had every reason to doubt him, question his motives, throw him out even.

But Lars could’ve said no. Lars could’ve said _fuck you_ and _fuck off._ He didn’t have to take him upstairs. He didn’t have to come to him in the lobby. He didn’t even have to acknowledge him.

He could’ve done nothing.

James took the seat beside Lars on the couch, the middle cushion separating them. 

_Lars does care._

“Thank you.”

He swiped the plate clean of his bacon first, stuffing his cheeks full and swallowing down in noisy bites. The steak came next, cutting up fat juicy slices and chewing them fast. Ravenous hunger usurped the need for little manners. It was Lars, after all. He was used to it. 

A napkin fell onto his right thigh. He smiled around a spoonful of mashed potatoes when he heard Lars’s disgusted sigh. 

The potatoes were done and gone when Lars stood up from the couch, heading towards the kitchen. James watched him at the counter, opening a cabinet and taking out a wine glass.

“It’s okay if I drink in front of you, yeah?” 

“It’s cool.”

He tore through the second steak. The fridge door open and closed, followed soon by the _pop_ of the cork. 

“You want a soda or something?”

“I’m good.”

Feet shuffled across the carpet. James ate a steak piece slowly. 

The couch shifted beside him. From the corner of his vision, he watched Lars tilt the glass to his lips. 

He picked up his water glass and drained half of it. 

Lars’s steady breathing was loud. 

James took a deep breath, licked his lips. Both his hands squeezed the glass. He stared at his reflection in the faint lamp light and caught his tired eyes, the dark circles, his worry. 

_Say something._

Finally, Lars spoke. “I guess you were hungry.”

“Yeah. I, uh, didn’t really get time to eat.”

“Oh?”

“I just came over. Didn’t really stop.”

Lars sipped loud. “When did you get here?”

“A little past two.”

“When did you leave?”

“Yesterday at noon.”

A long period of silence followed. James took the time to drink the rest of his water and eat the little leftovers. He rested the empty cup beside his empty plate and weaved his fingers between his legs. 

Lars’s voice changed when he asked, “Did you stay in the lobby the whole time?” He sounded shocked again. Shocked, awed and downright confused.

“Yeah. I was afraid I’d miss you.”

“Fuck.” The wine glass ended up on the table. There was still a good amount of liquid inside. He heard the rough sigh, the crunch of palms over hair. “I just…”

Hands slapped on thighs. Another soft “fuck.” 

James flexed his clasped hands. 

Lars’s heavy breathing filled the air. 

The couch shifted again. 

He closed his eyes when Lars whispered. 

“Why are you here?”

Again. That same question, with questions on top of other questions. _Why are you doing this? What’s your angle? Why now?_

He pressed his knuckles to his forehead. 

All questions he anticipated. All with answers prepared. 

None of them came to mind. 

He squeezed his eyes tight. 

_Think. Think._

One by one, the things he wanted to say slowly emerged. _Because you were right. Because Jason’s gone. Because I fucked up. Because we suck without you. Because I had to. To get you back. To bring you back. To say…_

His back rose and fell with his sigh.

_We want you back. We need you back._

He rubbed his forehead across his knuckles. 

_I need you back._

The knuckles bruised his skin. 

_I shouldn’t have doubted you. I shouldn’t have done this to you. I’m sorry Lars._

He rose his head. 

_I’m sorry. I miss you. I need you._

His hands unfurled, hung between his legs. 

James took a deep breath. 

_I…_

“I love you.”

Lars gasped.

James’s eyes snapped wide open. 

_What did I…_ He stared at the wall, the blank TV. _I love him?_

Wrong words. They weren’t supposed to be said—or thought of. I’m sorry, I miss you, I want you back, those were fine, but this? 

He couldn’t look at Lars.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. This wasn’t how he envisioned it. There wasn’t a plan when he came here, he had no plans, just a goal to get to him—just an impulse post-Jason. But the outcome, the hope, was supposed to be them reconciling as friends, Lars agreeing to come back, things returning to how it was before. This was anything but. 

And Lars was quiet.

James couldn’t move. 

_I love him._

He rolled the thought around in his head, the nightmare images of Lars and the Pacific, Lars and the studio. Memories filtered in next, from the 80s to now. Lars, that smelly first time, his thick accent. Drinking beer. Sharing music. Sharing girls. Growing up together. Making music together. Mourning Cliff together. His father’s funeral. Arguing, sarcasm: their way of communicating in public. The moments spent in private, in the studio, in Lars’s basement, in his own house. The trip itself, coming out here. Thinking of him. What Lars said. What Jason said. 

Was this right? Did he do wrong? How did this happen? When? Had Jason been—what? What was Jason to him? What was Lars to him? 

_What am I doing?_

He stared at his empty plate.

Lars was still quiet.

The thoughts in his head gathered up into a big pile and he shifted through them, trying to make sense of himself. Jason and he were together first. Jason and he were together for a long time. Lars didn’t like Jason, but supported him. Then Jason left. Jason was gone. Then Jason came back to the band and himself and Lars told him to watch out. Lars was right. Jason got Lars out. Now, Jason was gone again. Because he flew to Lars. He chose Lars over Jason. He flew for hours and waited for hours for Lars. 

For Lars. 

_To get him back_. _To apologize. To tell him…_

James leaned back. 

_I love him._

He smiled.

_I love him._

It made sense. The same way Jason and he made sense, but different. So different. This, all of this—he’d never go this far for Jason. For all the shit dealt and delivered between he and Lars, they weren’t severed, or broken, or anything like that, like he and Jason. That empty plate told him why. This room too. The lobby, Lars coming to him. The past. 

For once, James felt peace. 

_I love him._

Lars finally whispered back. “I want to believe you.”

_I know._ “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay.” Lars cleared his throat. “How’s, uh, recording?”

“We’re almost done.”

“Well that’s good. Should have it by the deadline then. Peter will be happy.”

“I don’t think so.” James turned to Lars and found him staring at the wall ahead, arms wound tight around his torso. “Jason left again.”

Lars gasped again. He watched him sharply turn his way, sitting upright. “ _What?_ ”

“I think. I’m pretty sure he did.”

“I thought…” Lars’s arms unfurled. “Weren’t things okay?”

“They were.” James smiled. “Then I learned the truth.”

Lars’s face fell. “I never intended… I didn’t…”

“I should know you’re always right.”

Hurt crossed his face. He turned away. James took the opportunity to scoot himself closer, onto the middle cushion. His arm laid across the headrest, behind Lars. 

“I’m sorry…” Lars shook his head, hands bunching up into fists on his lap. “Fuck, I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“You said exactly what needed to be said.”

“But you love him. I mean. You’re in love with him.”

The gap between them was little. James lifted his hand from the couch to the back of Lars’s head.

“I was.”

Lars’s head jerked up. 

His fingers weaved into Lars’s hair.

He didn’t react when Lars flinched away. 

“James…”

The fear. The uncertainty. 

Lars was scared of him. 

His other hand laid over Lars’s forearm. 

He leaned in. 

“You heard what I said.” 

His fingers slid down Lars’s head. 

Lars’s lips were so close.

He cupped his cheek. 

Hip touched hip. Thigh touched thigh.

The smell. The warmth.

Lars’s eyes.

James closed his.

“I love you.”

Their lips met in a soft kiss.

Lars was warm.

_So warm._

His hand left Lars’s forearm for the other cheek. He tilted Lars’s head up, his tongue gently pressing—asking for the permission he needed granted. And a deep moan escaped when those lips gave way and opened up to him, letting him in. 

Tongues touched. Warm, wet heat ate up his senses, sending a shiver from his mouth down to his stomach, down to his toes. Burning his insides. Making him alive. 

He moaned again when hands touched his bare chest. 

_Lars…_

Palms flattened out. Fingers slid up. 

The kiss slowly petered out. 

Lars pulled away.

Hands pushed him back. 

_No._ His head spun. _No_ —

Lips crushed against his. _Oh God._ Breath escaped too quick out his lungs. He found his head and neck tilted back, his mouth shoved open by a demanding, eager tongue. _Oh fuck._ His arms snapped around Lars’s torso to keep balance, chest meeting chest. _Fuck._ Hands pushed deep into his terry cloth, up to his shoulders— _Lars_ —and he moaned when the robe slipped off and down his back. 

His body acted before his mind did, pulling Lars to him and turning them around. He hoisted him up onto his lap and settled back into the cushions, every tremor in Lars’s body matching the tremor James felt too. But Lars’s hands were sure. They rubbed his chest, squeezed his pecs, delved in and palmed down his sides, reaching for any warm skin they could find, and he arched his body, shimmied his arms out of the robe, giving him more to stroke, more to touch. And he did. Fingers skipped over his biceps, under his pits, thumbed his nipples and he gasped into Lars’s mouth, almost breaking their kiss. His own hands followed along, slipping down and under Lars’s shirt. Warm skin burned his palms good, and he did as Lars did. He sunk his fingertips in, squeezing, pulling his flesh, and the long moan Lars released into his own mouth made his cock twitch. 

They moved together, their actions a reaction to the other. When his hands groped Lars’s back, from tailbone to shoulders, Lars’s went down his chest, down to his loose sash. The robe unfurled first, exposing his hard cock to the cool air. The shirt went second, breaking their kiss briefly, Lars lifting his arms up in the air. James pulled it off slowly, exposing his chest and the nipple ring that begged to be touched, and he gave into the tiny temptation, flicking it with his thumb. 

Lars jolted in his lap. “Agh.” 

He looked up at Lars in that moment, taking in what he saw. Tilted head. Shut eyes. Parted red, wet lips. Exposed throat. His chest. His tummy. His legs on either side of his knees, and the bulge in his pants. 

_God._ He leaned up to kiss the underside of his throat. _Lars._

His mouth moved across Lars’s neck and throat, planting small kisses along the fine skin. His nose dragged along, smelling faint traces of cologne. At the base of his neck, he gave him one last kiss and stayed there, breathing him in, his arms settling around Lars’s waist.

He didn’t want to move. Not out of fear, but of comfort. Lars felt good in his arms. _He_ felt good. After the last two days, the last three months, the last few years, he finally felt good, just being like this. Just from holding Lars. 

James hugged him tight. 

_Don’t leave me._

He breathed him in. Hot breath blew back onto his face. 

_I love you._

A hand rested on the top of his head. The other landed in the middle of his back. He felt fingers pet his hair first, slipping through his scalp. The other hand followed, making small circles over his spine. 

His eyes slowly drifted closed, his body unwinding and relaxing. His arms around Lars loosened. 

“James?” His voice was soft. 

“Mm?”

“I…” He felt and heard Lars’s deep sigh. “I’m sorry about Jason.”

“Mm.”

“I was fucking stupid. I mean, I didn’t want the band to fall apart like this. But I didn’t want him to hurt you. You deserve better. Jason should’ve known that, y’know? And yet I just saw, just, all that bullshit. Using you, using the others, the power play bullshit I thought we got over with Phil.” 

“Mm.” The hand in his hair swiped fuller, stronger strokes. James’s toes curled.

“Fuck, I don’t even know _how_ things got this bad. After Napster, it was one bad thing after another. Jason left, you went to rehab… I thought it was a miracle when you two came back in February. Like, that’s it, we’re back, we can make music again, we don’t need Phil anymore. And then, Jason goes and pulls that shit. I can do this, I can do that, hey Lars can you play in tempo for once. What the fuck? He had no damn right, and yet I didn’t want to say anything, because I didn’t want to fuck shit up. I didn’t want to be the bad guy. But I ended up being the bad guy anyway, uh?”

He didn’t answer. His arms and legs tingled, his back warm, a smile buried away in Lars’s neck. 

“Yeah. I was the bad guy.” The hands stopped stroking. Lars’s warm breath landed into his hair. “God, James, all I’m saying is, the Jason thing? I’m sorry. I thought Jason was hurting you, or going to hurt you, and I was—”

“Lars?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, but—”

James planted a hand over Lars’s mouth, muffling his words. He straightened himself up and looked Lars dead in the eye. “You’re not listening to me.” His lips replaced his hand, keeping him quiet in a kiss, and when Lars finally relaxed in his arms with a soft moan, he pulled away to whisper, “I love _you_.” And gave him another kiss. Another. “You.” And one more, deeper than the last. 

Lars moaned again, arms wrapping around his shoulders. His hands slid down to Lars’s ass, giving it a good squeeze. Another moan came out. A strangled “James” slipped too. 

He pulled back to moan, “Lars,” over his lips, and quickly covered them again. 

His legs pushed up from the couch, his arms taking Lars with him. They stumbled for balance as they kissed, tripping over their feet, all the way to the bedroom. But he couldn’t break the kiss. He hugged him close, his lips and tongue moving with Lars’s. His hip bumped the doorframe. Lars groaned into his mouth, hitting the side of the dresser. And he felt no fear when they fell backwards, landing on top of the bed. 

A loud “oof” escaped between them. 

James pulled away, balancing on his elbows. “Sorry.” 

“S’okay—”

He kissed him again. No more talking. Talking meant Lars would stop again. And James didn’t want to stop. He didn’t want to hear anything from Lars but his moans. Didn’t want to do anything else but this. 

His elbow dug into the mattress, holding himself up, while the other hand drifted down between them for Lars’s belt buckle. He grunted, fumbling with the leather, until helpful hands met his and pushed him away. Lars took care of himself beneath him, yanking pants down and over his hips with ease, and James lifted himself up as best he could to give him enough room. 

Socked feet kicked the side of his ankles. Fabric brushed the skin. Pants crumpled to the floor with a loud _clang_. Warm legs snapped around his waist first. Arms followed along, hugging his shoulders, pulling him back down. 

They moaned together when their cocks touched for the first time. 

_Oh fuck._ His hips bucked. Lars’s bucked back. _Fuck._ Their cocks rubbed with every movement. _Fuck._ Slick. Hard. _Oh fuck._ His hands latched onto Lars’s shoulders, squeezing them rough, and Lars’s hands mimicked his, clutching all the skin he could from his back. _Fuck fuck fuck_ —his hips moved, Lars’s hips moved, they moved, together. A fast rhythm, a fast tempo, and Lars— _fucking_ —Lars was moaning, shaking, beneath him, breathing, his tongue, his mouth, his hips, _oh shit oh shit_ , James’s breath hitched, _shit shit shit_ —

The kiss broke. “Fuck,” Lars panted. “Stop. Stop.” 

His hips didn’t listen. _Fuck shit fuck—_ he squeezed Lars’s shoulders— _shit shit shiiiit—_

“Stop.” Nails dug into his skin. Lars stilled beneath him. “Stop, James.” 

“Uhn.” His jaw clenched. “Shit.”

“ _Stop_.”

_Shit._ He froze himself in place, fists in the sheets. A few deep breaths later, he panted, “What? What is it?”

“We need lube.”

“Uh?” 

“Get up.”

Hands pushed at his chest. His body rolled to his side. The bed squeaked. Feet shuffled on the carpet. His mind caught up as his eyes adjusted to the dark bedroom. _Did he just…_

The dim light from the living room illuminated enough of Lars’s backside, from head to thighs, before he disappeared beyond his sight. 

He rubbed a hand over his sweaty face, flopping onto his back. 

_Jesus Christ what are we doing?_

From the other side of the room, he heard a light clicked on, a cabinet door opened. He rubbed his eyes— _what am_ I _doing_ —and feet shuffled close again. The bed dipped again. 

“Here.” 

Cool plastic pressed into his other hand. His fingers squeezed the bottle. _Shit._ “You want that?”

“Don’t you?” Lars sounded offended.

“I…” He slid the hand from his face down to his chest. _I don’t know. It’s too fast. Isn’t it?_ He touched his hard dick briefly. _I guess—_

“James.” Lars sighed. The bed shifted. “What _do_ you want? I mean, really. You flew all this way, no luggage, no warning, wait for hours in the lobby just to tell me Jason is gone and that you love me—”

“I do.”

“Because Jason can’t be there?”

His eyes snapped open. He pushed up onto his elbows.

There was a gap between he and Lars again. They were on opposite corners of the bed, Lars with his back to him, head tilted down, arms hanging loose between his spread legs. The dim light in the doorway casted heavy shadows over his face. He couldn’t see his eyes.

“You don’t believe me.”

He watched Lars’s throat swallow. “I want to.”

“You told me that already.” 

“So what are you gonna do about it?”

He sat up, legs hanging off the edge of the bed. Lars’s eyes were closed. Sweat collected on his brow and upper lip, dotted across his chest and down to his belly. His back formed a heavy curve, his cheeks and lips a sheen of light red. 

That head turned to him, and eyes opened. They had no color. 

Lars looked like the day he left. The same look. 

_Do you want me to leave?_

His body scooted across the bed, closing the gap again. _No._ His hands cupped Lars’s face. _I never did._

The eyes shined. 

_So what are you gonna do about it?_

He pressed their foreheads together. 

“Prove you wrong.”

Lars’s lips met his when they kissed. There was no passivity this time. No hesitation. Arms found their way back around his shoulders, and he wrapped his around Lars’s waist, back where they belonged. 

Their bodies laid back on the bed, shifting around until they returned to the same position, James settled between Lars’s spread legs. The desperation still existed in their kisses and touches, but James took his time kissing Lars, kissing a path down the curve of his neck, the rise of his chest, the dip of his belly, down to his pelvis. His hands smoothed out and under Lars’s hips and thighs, grasping them in his palms and lifting them over his shoulders. Fingers threaded through his hair, gentle pulls that encouraged him _more_ , just like the drawn-out, soft moans Lars spilled into the air. And he gave Lars the more he needed, taking his cock into his mouth. 

_Different._ He settled his tongue under the head and drew his mouth down, up, down. Slow movements. His hand wrapped around the base. _So different._ The feel, the texture. The smell and the size. The sounds too. 

“Oh…” The sound of his name. “James…”

He moved slow, following the length. The fingers in his hair held on. 

“Fuck.” Lars’s thighs flexed around his head. “Agh. Fuck.”

A long, loud moan. Heavy, labored breathing. He moved faster, and the thighs flexed again. He ran his tongue under, over, under, pressed the tip, and the thighs squeezed around him, the fingers squeezed above him, Lars bucked under him, and his dick twitched at the soft “oh” Lars let go. 

He did it again. Another brief, soft “oh.” He drew his mouth up, down, and out came another, “oh.” His tongue circled, pressed, circled again, and Lars twitched in his hold and choked, “ _James_ ,” like a plea. 

His hand stroked and squeezed the base. Hips twitched. His other hand searched the bed for the bottle. Lars twitched. His jaw hurt. His fingers fumbled with the cap. Sweat stung the corner of his eyes. 

“Please,” Lars moaned. Another “oh,” and then: “Please, James. Please…”

He gave one last stroke to Lars’s cock. His mouth slowly pulled away. Cool air hit his warm mouth and neck, taking in a deep breath. “Turn—” He cleared his throat, pressing a hand to a thigh. “Turn around.”

The fingers in his hair flattened out. “Okay.” They pulled away trembling, like legs on his shoulders trembled, bending away and off. There was enough light to see Lars shift on the bed, curl up to his side, readying himself for all fours. 

His hand reached out and pressed down on Lars’s hip. “Like that.”

Lars trembled all over. “Uh?”

“Your side.”

“Oh.” He settled down. 

The blankets moved under him as he slid up behind Lars, taking the lube with him. He laid it between them to push his hand under Lars’s thigh again. “Up.”

“What?”

“Push your knee to your chest.” He did it for him. “Like that.” His fingers skirted down Lars’s inner thigh. “Good?”

“Uh. Yeah.” Lars wiggled beside him for a moment. “James?”

“Mm?” He kissed shoulder, grabbing the bottle again. 

“It’s… okay, right?”

“What is?”

“This.”

He smiled, coated his fingers in lube. “You tell me.”

“It’s just—” Lars gasped, jolted. “Shit.”

“Sorry.” He slid one around his hole, up and down the crack. “Relax.”

“I know. It’s just—”

“Been awhile?”

“Yeah, that.”

He kissed his shoulder, pressing the finger in. “I’ll go slow.”

Lars answered in a moan.

His mouth stayed on Lars’s shoulder. He eased the finger in like he promised, slow, gentle, until it rested all the way in. His thrusts were tempered—in, hold, out—going faster to match Lars’s breathing. 

More kisses. More moans. He chanced another finger in, and Lars moaned, “ohh,” bucking back into him. 

“Uhn.” He pulled out to use more lube. His lips dragged on Lars’s skin, planting small, wet kisses on the shoulder’s curve. “Lars.”

Another moan. Lars squeezed his fingers. 

He stretched him with every thrust, moving faster. His dick rubbed against Lars’s thigh, his hips rolling slow. His mouth pressed to Lars’s shoulder, tasting sweat on his tongue, and his inside of his stomach coiled up, telling him, _now now now._

His fingers slipped out. He squeezed a generous amount of lube onto his hand, hissing when he touched himself. It didn’t matter seconds later, the _shuck shuck shuck_ slickness of his dick echoing in the room. 

The bottle ended up on the floor. He braced a hand on Lars’s hip, the other aiming his dick right. 

He pressed close, propping a leg up. Lars’s back tensed on his chest. 

His lips brushed Lars’s neck. “Relax.”

Lars nodded. 

The bed squeaked as he shifted his hips forward. The head of his cock pressed Lars’s hole—he groaned—and his nose brushed the base of Lars’s neck, slowly moving in. 

Warm. Tight. 

_Fuck._

Lars whimpered. 

He kissed Lars’s neck. “Relax.” Kissed it again. “Relax…” His hand rubbed in small circles from hip to tummy. _So good._

His hips pulled back, stopped, pushed in, just a little more. 

A hand fell on top of his and squeezed. 

He kissed the neck again. And again. “Relax.” And one more long one, right on the base, as he eased in the rest of the way.

The hand twined fingers with his. 

“James,” Lars sighed. His head lolled over, onto the bed. “James…”

He dragged his lips across the juncture of his neck. _Fuck._ Tight, all around him. Squeezing. Getting used to the feel, the sensation. 

His nose rubbed the shoulder, smiling wide. _It’s happening._ He squeezed Lars’s hand— _it’s actually happening_ —and kissed the skin.

“ _Lars_.”

He started slow, his hips moving in a steady rhythm. Long, easy strokes, easing in, easing out, and Lars met each one, releasing James’s hand to touch himself. He kissed Lars’s neck, kissed the sweat, Lars’s moans vibrating under his lips. His hands busied themselves, one on Lars’s head, one on Lars’s chest, petting the skin, petting the hair.

_Slow._ He leaned up to kiss his sweaty cheek. _Go slow._

“James…” Lars lifted an arm up, reaching behind him. “James…”

Fingers found his neck, the back of his head. He tilted up into the palm, propping a knee up, curving it into Lars’s—and groaned, “Fuck.” Pushing deeper into him. 

Lars moaned, “Yes… yes…” He squeezed James’s neck. “Please.”

“Uhn.” His hips moved faster to that plea. “Lars. _Lars._ ”

A soft whimper. Then: “More. James.”

_Slow._ His hand on Lars’s chest pressed his sternum. “Yeah?”

“Yes. Yes. Please.” Another squeeze to his neck, and the sharp pull jerked him down, crushing their lips together. “Please,” he hissed, mewed, _fuck Lars,_ and he gasped over James’s lips, “I need you.”

_Fuck._ He covered Lars’s mouth, ate up his moans, his hips pumping faster. _Fuck. Fuck._ He rubbed his chest, rubbed his stretched arm— _fuck Lars fuck_ —rubbed his hair and let the one arm flop to the side, over Lars’s head, the other hugging his waist again. 

And the pace went faster. The burn climbed faster. Their kisses turned frantic, teeth and tongue sinking into the mouth Lars offered him. And Lars was moaning. He moaned his name, he moved with him, he broke the kiss and jerked away to whimper, “Please, James, please,” each breath desperate and greedy for the next, and James gave in, gave up, squeezing Lars to him, fucking hard into him, the bed squeaking, his body tensing, and he came hard, releasing strong, low grunts into Lars’s waiting mouth.

He grunted-growled again when Lars squeezed around him a moment later, trembling against him, letting go a small, muffled squeak. 

Their lips moved together as he slowed down inside Lars, their bodies unwinding, muscle by muscle. His arm loosened around Lars’s waist. Lars’s arm gradually let his neck go, resting it over his forearm.

When his hips finally came to a stop, James gently broke the kiss and whispered soft, “Love you.”

Lars whispered back, “Love you too.” 

He smiled. Lars didn’t sound as unsure or afraid as before. _He believes me._ He kissed him one last time. _He loves me._ And his head flopped back to the pillow, a loud _psh_ passing through his lips. _It’s finally okay._

Hours later, James woke up neck-deep in the bedsheets, the faint trickle of running water coming from the other side of the room. He blinked his sleepy eyes open, staring at the blue sky through white gossamer curtains, the morning light shining yellow on the carpet, and—he smiled—a rolling table with two silver cloches, a pitcher of orange juice and two glasses on top. 

The water steadily turned off. He stretched his body out, rolling onto his back. His shoulders and neck cracked. His hip popped. Soft humming trickled in as he shifted up on his elbows, and he sat up against the headboard when he heard feet shuffle in. 

“Morning.”

James turned his head to the source and found Lars standing naked in the doorway of the bathroom, rubbing a white towel over his head and body. “Morning.”

“Sleep well?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Best fucking sleep I’ve had in a long time.” Lars dumped the towel and crossed the room over to James. “You hungry? I got pancakes.”

“Thought you liked waffles more.”

“I’m more in a pancake mood.” 

“Let me guess. Chocolate chip?”

“Mm. Maybe.”

“That’s a yes.” 

“Hey, be lucky I remembered, okay?” Lars sat down beside his covered legs, resting a hand on the knee. “I could just ordered mackerel.”

“For breakfast?”

“Why not?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “You would.” His hand laid on top of Lars’s. “Weirdo.”

“Fuck you.” Their hands shifted around, until their fingers twined. “Who’s the bastard that spent thousands finding said weirdo, uh?”

“I love you too.”

“Yeah, I know.” Lars’s smile waned, squeezing their hands. “Seriously, James. Is this gonna be okay? Because already there’s gonna be a hundred problems to deal with. Like that drummer, bass player auditions, finishing the album, the press releases—I mean, fuck. Are you sure? Like, _really_ sure? Because if we do this, we can’t go back, okay? I can fix a lot of things, but I can’t—”

He pressed the fingers of his other hand to Lars’s lips, shutting him up. “It will.” His fingers skipped down over those lips, down and around his neck. “I promise.” He brought him close, until they were nose to nose, and whispered with a smile, “It’s going to be just fine.” 

They kissed on the edge of San Francisco Bay a year later, with Golden Gate in the horizon, the blue sky empty, and the ocean foam settling at their feet.


End file.
